


como se puede bailar (es un escandolo)

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-09
Updated: 2008-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 12:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You really like 'em, huh?" Jennifer sounds a little bemused but more than that, she sounds pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	como se puede bailar (es un escandolo)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Cate](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com) for betaing. Inspired by [these photos (spoilers for a future episode)](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/298353.html).

"You really like 'em, huh?" Jennifer sounds a little bemused but more than that, she sounds pleased.

Rodney can only nod. Jennifer's sitting on the end of their hotel room bed, and he's kneeling in front of her, heedless of the way his knees are already aching, because she's got one foot outstretched and resting in his lap—a foot that's still encased in the knee-high boots he's been staring at the whole evening, the boots that had him hoping that the pants of his tuxedo were cut well enough to hide inappropriate erections. Rodney has one hand curled around her ankle, and against his palm, the suede of her boot is butter-soft, warmed from her body heat from being as close to her as a second skin; it catches against his calluses when he slides his hand up from the fine bones of her ankle, along the strong lines of her calf. Jennifer watches him, fascinated, while he traces the very tips of his fingers along the hint of pale skin that's visible between the end of her boots and the beginning of her dark skirts.

"You wanna help me take them off?" she says, wry mischief inflecting her voice, making the edges of it curl upwards. When Jennifer presses the toe of he boot just hard enough against him, Rodney can't do anything but close his eyes and shudder, ride it out, repress the urge to rub himself off against her right there, eyes screwed shut and panting. He's been distracted by the need of her all night—standing there and watching her while surrounded by the people who consider themselves his peers, listening to them spout inanities that he's not allowed to correct—and now she's giving him just what he wants and it's almost too much to accept.

"Yes," Rodney says simply, finally, his voice cracking under the weight of his honesty, but his hands aren't shaking when he pushes her skirts up to mid thigh, slowly, so that he can hear how the fabric whispers and rustles. He presses a kiss to the soft, soft skin that reveals, another to the inside of her right knee, before he slowly slides the zipper down. Jennifer makes a small sound low in her throat, when Rodney carefully works the boot free, placing it to one side before he kisses the high arch of her foot. The skin is thin here, delicate, and the crimson paint on her toenails is an unexpected burst of colour.

Rodney's quicker with the other one, discarding it beside its mate before he kneels up to kiss her. His hands tangle in her hair, the fine brown strands unspooling like the finest thread between his fingers, and Jennifer responds hungrily, humming low in her throat while her tongue teases at the slant of his lower lip. She pushes the jacket from his shoulders, deft fingers working at his bow tie so that it falls to hang loosely around his neck, and Rodney moans softly against her sweet, pink mouth; each time he breathes in, he can feel how her thighs press tightly against his sides.

"Come on," she whispers to him, as if there's anyone else there to hear them, as if there's a chance in hell Rodney wouldn't want to her speak, "Rodney, c'mon, I spent more money on my lingerie than I did on my boots, it's supposed to help me get lucky."

He's uncomfortably aware that his face must be flushed completely red; that his hair must be a mess from how they'd made out in the elevator like horny teenagers, Jennifer's nails scraping sharp at the nape of his neck; unpleasantly conscious of how his knees are creaking in protest, but there's nothing in Rodney that wants to disappoint her. He pulls back a little, just enough to let her lie back so that she's holding herself up on her elbows. Rodney pushes her skirts up all the way, so that they form a puddle of black silk around her belly, and groans when he sees what she's wearing beneath—nothing more than scraps of grey silk and black lace, cut high in the leg, and her thighs are spread enough that he can tell how the material's darkened. Jennifer's already wet for him.

"There's condoms in the bedside table," Jennifer says, as matter of fact as she always is about these things, but Rodney shakes his head.

"Not yet," he says before he tugs the crotch of her panties to one side, bends over and breathes in the smell of her for a moment before he goes down on her—one long, slow swipe with the flat of his tongue and her spine curls up off the bed. It's always been one of Rodney's favourite things to do with her: to taste the bitter-salt of her against his mouth while she's trying and failing not to swear, his dress-shirt starting to stick damply to his back with sweat; to feel himself surrounded by her when she shudders and gives in and starts to push back against him, her fingers twisting in his hair while her body rearranges itself into the complex geometry of wanting; to wait for that moment when—oh, oh yes, yes, _that_—when Jennifer's legs come up over his shoulder, when she tugs him closer with her heels and Rodney feels himself surrounded by her completely. It's like fucking her, but better, because this is purely about Jennifer, and Rodney can't help himself from exulting in that.

"More," he hears her say, her voice rough and slurring; when Rodney pulls back a little, looks up the line of her willing body, Jennifer's eyes are closed and her hair is tangled around her flushed face. The fingers of her free hand have slipped under the bodice of her dress, pushed it down just low enough to let her tease at one tight nipple. "Rodney, please, more, I—" Her hips buck under him when she pinches herself, when she scrapes the edge of her thumbnail against sensitised skin.

He smiles and bends back to his work, first nipping at the sharp arc of her hip, then soothing the sting with kisses hard enough that he knows there'll be a hickey there in the morning; Jennifer likes that, and she gasps, wide-eyed, before Rodney pushes two fingers inside her with no warning and leans back in to suck at her clit. He's breathing fast, and he's hard enough that he's straining to rub himself against the edge of the mattress, desperate for any kind of pressure—but Jennifer, Jennifer's almost hyperventilating, her heels starting to beat a syncopated, distracted rhythm against his back.

"Please," he can hear her moan, voice choked, "god, Rodney, please," over and over until he takes pity on her. He adds a third finger, a fourth, and feels her start to shake apart around him. Beneath her, the cheap bed rattles, and Rodney grins, curling his fingers and pressing them just enough so that she finishes with her breath rattling hoarsely in her throat.

His fingers are wet when he gently pulls them out; Jennifer is limp beneath him and her legs slide off his shoulders to hang lax off the bed—but she's grinning, the high points of her cheekbones flushed, and she looks at him with dilated pupils from beneath heavy eyelids. "Got m'money's worth," she says to Rodney when he kicks off his shoes and climbs up onto the bed to kneel over her, when he kisses where she'd bitten at her lower lip, when he kisses her chin and the tip of her nose.

"Y'r tax dollars at work," Rodney mumbles, not really aware of what he's saying—can't think like this, he's—Jennifer's managed to work his zipper down and open his boxers, and her small hand is working his cock with slow, efficient strokes, using that little twist on the upstroke that she'd quickly worked out he likes. He's rocking over her, eyes closed against his will, turning his face to meet the way her breath comes warm against his cheek; and when she says _Rodney_, coaxing, her voice laced with something more than fondness, something twists in his chest that's even more shattering than the orgasm which is racing along the length of his spine, working its way along each electric nerve to leave him gasping.

Rodney comes all over her thigh, leaves a mess of white against the wrinkled fabric of her dress. His head drops down, his arms shaking, because he can't support himself alone any more, and he lets himself lie down next to her; feels Jennifer turn until she's pressed up against him, one small hand resting with unsurprising accuracy right over his still-thudding heart.

"Next time," she informs him blurrily, right before she dozes off, "I'll keep m'boots on."

Rodney smiles, presses a kiss to her temple with all the delicacy that unexpected love imposes on him, and wraps one arm over her waist, rubs patterns of fractals against her back, fit to soothe both of them. They sleep like that: crumpled clothes shedding the formality neither of them wish to cling to anymore, close together as skin-against-skin, Jennifer's bare toes curling against Rodney's shins in time with her breath.


End file.
